Alex Cross, Run

by James Patterson

  After a quick search, the only place I found Guidice’s name was in a police report from six years earlier. And in fact, he hadn’t committed any crime. He was the named next of kin for a woman who had died during a police action in Chinatown.

  I remembered the case now. It came back to me with a creeping sort of dread. This one was not a good memory.

  I’d been heading up an investigation on a midlevel arms runner who’d been playing both sides of the fence, providing automatic weapons to rival gangs in Southeast and Northwest DC. Word had been coming down from more than one informant that a major brawl was on its way. When you’re talking about automatic weapons, crossed with two crews who had a history of disregard not just for each other but for innocent bystanders as well, it’s best not to take too many chances. Even though we were still hoping to ID this guy’s upper-level contacts, I made the call to bring him in, ASAP.

  Now, sitting there at my desk, I didn’t need to reread the report in front of me to remember what happened next.

  The thug’s name was Marco Bruillo, with a last known address at an expensive studio apartment on H Street. On the night in question, Bruillo had been tracked there, and the plan was to make the arrest inside, as quietly as possible.

  When we arrived, though, Bruillo was just on his way back out. We had no choice but to take him right there on the sidewalk, or risk losing him altogether.

  What we couldn’t know was that two of his own people were parked and waiting for him across the street. As soon as we had Bruillo up against the wall, they opened fire from their vehicle.

  It was the fastest-moving shootout I’ve ever found myself in. Within fifteen seconds, it was over. Bruillo was dead, but so were three other bystanders, all of them waiting in line to buy movie tickets at the theater next to his building.

  In the end, forensics had shown that two of those bystanders had been killed with automatic weapon fire. But the third—a woman by the name of Theresa Filmore—was accidentally shot and killed by one of my fellow MPD detectives. It was a tragedy, no two ways about it.

  The city had taken full responsibility, and settled out of court with Ms. Filmore’s named next of kin—her fiancé, a man by the name of Ronald F. Guidice.

  I’d never forgotten about Theresa Filmore, but it wasn’t until I looked back at that file that I realized why Guidice’s name had rung a bell.

  Now I knew. And everything was starting to make a little more sense.

  Part Two

  TIPPING POINT

  CHAPTER

  39

  NIGHT FISHING WAS ALL THE COVER RON GUIDICE NEEDED TONIGHT. THERE WAS no necessity for a pseudonym, or physical camouflage, or even keeping out of sight, for that matter. From the middle of the wide saltwater channel where he sat, he could watch the little stilt house on the shore all he liked. Even if the cop in the driveway happened to look over and notice him, all he’d see was some goober out trying to hook a few snapper in the dark.

  It was a good time to be away from DC, too. Guidice had started to pull back the covers now, and chances were high that Alex Cross had begun to figure out who he was. Which was fine. As long as Guidice controlled the flow of information, then he controlled Alex, too.

  In the meantime, he kept his rod in the water and his eyes on the house at the shoreline, waiting for his gut to tell him it was time to move.

  The fishing gear was the cheapest he’d been able to find, at an Outdoor World near Savannah. The boat had been even easier to procure. Shellman Bluff wasn’t the kind of place where folks locked up their stuff at night, much less a dinged-up old aluminum dory like this one.

  On the floor of the boat was a black-market M16. The detachable night scope sat on Guidice’s lap. In the pouch pocket of his gray hoodie pullover, he also had a small Kahr 9mm with six rounds in the magazine. If everything went to plan, that was four more rounds than he’d need.

  The only real variable here was time. The lights in the house had gone out at eleven o’clock. They’d come back on briefly at twelve thirty, and then again just after two. Such was life with a newborn baby.

  Finally, when the house went dark a third time, Guidice set down the rod and pulled the M16 onto his lap. He could feel the adrenaline sharpening his focus as he raised the rifle to his shoulder and pressed his cheek against the hollowed-out stock.

  Through the green and black night-vision lens, the cop’s face came clear. He was sitting behind the wheel of his McIntosh County cruiser, looking bored and drumming his fingers on his jaw while he watched the house.

  Guidice took a deep breath. He centered his main targeting chevron over the man’s forehead. Then he squeezed off one fast round.

  The rifle’s suppressor allowed a small pop of sound, nothing more. Simultaneously, to the eye, a snowflake-shaped hole opened in the cruiser’s windshield. The man inside stiffened for a fraction of a second, before his head lolled softly to the side. It looked like he’d fallen asleep as much as anything else.

  For another count of thirty, Guidice kept his eye pressed to the scope. When the cop didn’t move, he lowered the rifle and let it slip over the side of the boat, into the water. Finally, he took up his oars and started in toward shore.

  It wasn’t far to row. Within a minute, maybe two, the little dory was scraping across soft sand and gravel at the water’s edge. Guidice stepped over the bow and onto the property, keeping his boots dry as he pulled the 9mm out of his pocket.

  He went straight for the police cruiser first. The cop inside was no issue, that much was clear. Instead, he went to the passenger side and took the man’s hat off the seat, as well as the uniform jacket folded neatly over the headrest.

  He slipped both of them on as he rounded the house toward the back. The front door had a line of sight to the neighbors, but the only view from the rear deck was out toward the yard, and the dark tidal marsh beyond that.

  Guidice paused at the back kitchen door, just long enough to pull the cop’s hat a little lower over his eyes, and to check the pistol’s magazine—a quick tap with the butt of his hand. Then he rapped hard, several times on one of the door’s small glass panes.

  Almost right away, a light went on from somewhere inside. The Reillys were sleeping light these days, no doubt.

  A moment later, another light came on, in the kitchen this time. Through the sheer curtain hanging over the glass, Guidice could see Tommy Reilly tying the belt of a plaid bathrobe around his considerable middle as he came around the corner.

  “Mr. Reilly?” he called through. “Sorry to disturb you, but we’ve got a bit of a problem out here. Would you mind opening up for a second?”

  CHAPTER

  40

  JOSH BERGMAN KEPT IT SIMPLE TONIGHT. JUST A DARK PAIR OF JEANS, a long-sleeved tee, and an excruciatingly boring Gap blazer. It was important to look presentable, but there was no sense in spending major cash to get it done. It was all going in the incinerator by the end of the night, anyway.

  He kept his change of clothes—his real clothes—in the trunk. Ian Velardi dot-print shirt, Armani trousers, and the custom Italian slip-ons from Vicenza, along with a change of underwear, and his Rolex Submariner.

  For after.

  Just before ten o’clock, he pulled his silver Audi A7 off Water Street and into the fenced waterfront parking lot. As he came around to the back, he spotted a single silhouetted male figure standing against the chain link and looking out at the Potomac.

  Bergman came to a stop and lowered the passenger window.

  “Travis?” he said.

  The boy turned around and came closer. “Are you Bill?” he asked.

  “I sure am,” Bergman said. “Get in.”

  He pointed at the bank envelope on the seat as the young hustler opened the door. There were two one hundred dollar bills inside, but the kid didn’t check. He just stuck it in his back pocket and sat down.

  “Nice car,” he said.

  “Isn’t it?” Bergman said.

  He was thin. Maybe a
little too thin, but cute, with a sexy little gap in his smile. His clothes were preppy-slouchy, a half-tucked oxford in ripped jeans. But it was the bright green limited edition Nike kicks that gave him away. This boy was obviously pulling down more cash than his friends with their little jobs at Abercrombie and Pizzeria Paradiso.

  Bergman pulled out of the lot and headed north, toward MacArthur. He had Elvis Costello on the stereo. “Pills and Soap.” A bit of vintage gold to go with his great mood.

  For a while, he drove upriver and they played small talk. The boy was from Maine. He hadn’t seen any good movies lately. He thought Mumford and Sons were just awesome.

  Eventually, the kid took a breath and looked around.

  “Where are we going?” he said. “This is like, practically Maryland.”

  “It is Maryland,” Bergman said. “I know a place. How do you feel about outside? Your profile didn’t really say either way.”

  The kid shrugged. “I like outside,” he said. He put a hand on Bergman’s knee as he leaned in to bump up the stereo’s volume. “Whatever you’re into.”

  “Awesome,” Bergman said.

  At the little one-lane stone bridge, he took a left off MacArthur, crossed over, and doubled back, half a mile down Clara Barton Parkway. The parking lot was just off the road, but low enough to offer some privacy. The only time anyone used it was during the day, and not even that much then.

  “Here we are,” he said, killing the engine. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  If the kid had any second thoughts, he was keeping them to himself. Probably thinking about his next pair of kicks instead.

  They got out and headed down into the woods. Bergman walked just behind him on the little footpath, his hand in his pocket, touching himself through the cloth.

  “Down here?” the boy asked.

  “Actually, stop right there,” Bergman said. They were at the midpoint in the woods, between the lot and the canal down the hill. “This is good.”

  The boy turned around in the dark and stepped up toward him. He reached out and ran a hand over Bergman’s crotch.

  “Dude. You’re ready to go, aren’t you?” the kid asked.

  “I am,” Bergman said. “I really am.”

  It was likely the boy never even saw the gun. Bergman took one quick step back to avoid any splatter, and pulled the trigger.

  The kid’s shadow dropped to the ground unceremoniously, like a sack of whatever. Bergman dropped, too, onto his knees.

  The knife was out next. He drove it in—once, twice, three times, fast . . . then again—four, five, six . . . seven . . . eight . . .

  He lost count somewhere after that, as the rising swirl of it all caught him up, and then seemed to reverse direction, funneling back down into a final, excruciating explosion of pleasure—literal and figurative.

  It was done. Again.

  Bergman fell back onto his elbows. His breath was ragged. The inside of his pants was wet.

  One by one, his senses seemed to float back into place. There was the boy on the ground. The sound of traffic on the highway. A slight metallic taste in his mouth.

  As his head cleared, logic moved back in. He couldn’t stay here, of course. He had to keep moving.

  It was just a quick drag down to the canal, where he emptied the boy’s pockets and rolled him into the water.

  Then he made his way back up to the parking lot, popped his trunk, and changed quickly, bagging everything else for disposal.

  By the time he was behind the wheel of his car again, heading south into the city, Bergman had come full circle and then some. He felt better now than he could remember feeling, ever.

  And the night was young. It was time to take this party somewhere else.

  CHAPTER

  41

  BY MIDNIGHT, BERGMAN WAS BACK DOWNTOWN AND READY FOR THE NEXT PART of his evening. He got out at the corner of Seventh and D, handed his keys to the valet, and headed inside.

  The three-tiered lobby of the Woolly Mammoth Theatre was jumping, with the annual Fashion Fights Hunger fundraiser. They had the whole place awash in yellow light, with bright pink theatrical spots throwing shards of magenta around the room. It wasn’t exactly flattering, but it was festive, anyway. The deejay booth at the far end was spinning salsa, and it was a hoot to see some of these industry suits trying to shake the sticks out of their asses on the dance floor.

  Bergman hit the bar first, then worked his way up to the third level, the better to take in the scene.

  “Joshua!” a voice screamed out as soon as he hit the landing. He turned around and saw a big pair of red lips coming at him, with his friend Kiki attached.

  “Incoming!” she said, and kissed him full on the mouth. “How’s my darling boy doing? It’s been forever and a half!”

  Bergman nodded at the mostly finished pink concoction in her hand. “I think I have some catching up to do,” he said.

  “Oh, you do,” she said. “You totally do. Garth and Tina are going to want to know you’re here, too.”

  Unlike with Elijah, Joshua Bergman’s recent troubles in the press had only upped his stock. He was now Washington’s bad boy of style and fashion, it seemed. Well, if the shoe fit, why not?

  He downed the rest of his watered half-rate Scotch and wagged the glass at Kiki. “Would you?” he said. “I have to make a call.”

  “I would,” she said. “And stand by for Garth and Tina. I’m going to bring them back up here. I think Tina has coke, which is so freaking retro, I can’t stand it.”

  As soon as she was gone, Bergman took out his phone and hit speed-dial one. He stood at the rail, watching the party and waiting for Elijah to answer.

  “Josh?”

  “Why do you always say my name like it’s a question?” Bergman said. “Don’t you trust caller ID?”

  “I don’t trust my mother, Josh. Why would I trust my phone?”

  Bergman loved the way they could just fall into it. Elijah acted like he didn’t care, Josh acted like he did, and both of them knew where the other was coming from. It was comfortable.

  “Well, guess where I am,” he said.

  “Someplace loud.”

  “It’s the Fashion Fights Hunger thing. You should come down and have a drink with me. It’s been a big night.”

  “Rain check,” Creem said. “I’m working at my desk, and I don’t want to put all of this away right now.”

  Bergman felt a bubble of excitement rise up from his belly, and into his throat. It came out as a giggle.

  “Let me try that again,” he said. “It’s been a very big night, Elijah, and I mean that in a way that only you could appreciate. I thought it would be nice to have a drink together.”

  Elijah didn’t answer, or say anything at all for a very long time. Kiki, Garth, and Tina were on their way up the stairs now, and Bergman gave them a just-a-minute finger before he walked farther up the mezzanine.

  “Elijah?” he said. “Are you still there?”

  “I’m here,” Creem said. “And you need to slow down, my friend. This isn’t a race.”

  “It’s not an anything,” Bergman said. “Isn’t that part of the beauty? It’s whatever we want it to be. Just like life.”

  He could feel the adrenaline, or endorphins, or whatever it was running through his veins as hot as that salsa music down below. He even did a few giddy steps while they talked. Back, forth, cha-cha-cha.

  “Well, enjoy yourself,” Creem said. “I’ll catch up with you soon.”

  Bergman smiled. “I hope that’s a double entendre,” he said. “Because just for the record, Elijah—if this were a race? I’d be winning.”

  “Good night, Josh.”

  “Love you, Elijah. Talk soon.”

  CHAPTER

  42

  THE NEXT DAY WAS ONE OF THE WORST I’VE EVER HAD ON THE FORCE.

  It started just before the 6 a.m. briefing at headquarters. With all three of these cases in full go mode, the brass had shifted our morning meetings up t
o the Joint Operations Command Center on the fifth floor. Everything to do with these homicides was now tracked in real time through the JOCC, so we would always know who was working which leads, and if anyone had made any progress. The briefings were a chance to cross-reference any police action from the overnight shift against our open investigations, to see if anything might prove relevant.

  When I got there that morning, Tom D’Auria was waiting in the fifth-floor hall to head me off with some very bad news. Word had just come in that Jeannette and Tommy Reilly, as well as the sheriff’s deputy assigned to their house in Shellman Bluff, had all been killed sometime in the last eight hours.

  “All three of them were shot,” D’Auria told me. “But they’re reporting two different calibers, so some of this is a little up in the air. CIC just got it a few minutes ago.”

  I nodded, but I wasn’t hearing much. My chest had gone tight, and I felt like I couldn’t breathe until I got an answer to my next question.

  “What about the baby?” I said.

  “Missing,” Tom told me.

  It was a one-word punch in the stomach. D’Auria ducked his chin, just to give me a moment of space. He knew I was invested here.

  “What can I do?” I said.

  “Not much,” he said. “FBI’s already on it. They’re working with McIntosh County, and the state troopers. The AMBER Alerts are up. Transportation hubs in all contiguous states are already covered.”

  “There has to be something,” I said.

  “You can give a call down to the Atlanta field office if you want, or the Savannah satellite office, if anyone’s there. They may want to talk to you. But other than that, it’s going to be a waiting game at this point.”

  They were coming at it aggressively. That was good. If and when they determined Rebecca had been taken across any state lines, it would automatically go federal, and they were already set up for that.